Dreams
by Dog of Glee
Summary: Oneshot DHr-"I have nightmares." he confides reluctantly. She wonders why he tells her this. " What do you have nightmares about?" she whispers. He does not answer her, but she does not blame him. " I have nightmares about you." she whispers.


_**Dreams  
**_  
**By:** Dog of Glee  
  
**Disclaimer:** I do not own Harry Potter.

There is no point in denying the inevitable.  
  
She can see the look in his eyes every time he glances her way.  
  
She can see the way he walks so slowly, so purposefully, yet never towards her.  
  
It is torture.  
  
Sitting there at her table draped in red, it seems to be all she can think about. He is only a few feet away, face turned down and icy blue eyes barely open, as he sits at his own table draped in green. The chattering that fills the hall seems distant and the warm glow of the torches seems dim and dark. He never looks up at her no matter how long her gaze bores into the top of his golden head.  
  
Her food goes cold on her plate and her fork lies limp in her fingers. It clatters against the table when she drops it to brush chocolate brown hair away from her pale face. She ignores the inquisitive looks from her friends, not even moving to pick up the fallen utensil. Color splashes her cheeks, highlighting her freckles as her transfixed stare grows deeper, searching for something.  
  
Something that surely is not there, she knows. With a small sigh and a shake of her head she pushes her chair away from the table, turning to leave the Great Hall. Of course her friends try to stop her. The boy with the red hair grabs her arm and the green-eyed boy says something. What she does not know, for she has already turned away and walks through the heavy wooden doors that open into the cool cobbled corridors. She no longer cares.  
  
Walking away from the turmoil that is her life, she does not know where she is going. They are always different, the places that her feet take her. The sounds of her footsteps echo along the portrait covered walls, her breathing rapid and her cloak swirling about her as a breeze rushes through the halls. No other sound reaches her ears, for she has left everyone behind to be alone. Alone is what she is. Alone is who she is.  
  
Stairs present themselves in her place, but she does not notice. She climbs up the stone stairwell without a passing glance for anything. Her mind is somewhere else as always. It has been somewhere else for so long, since the defeat of the Dark Lord, that she does not know how to bring it back, nor does any other. She feels the scars beneath her clothes, for they are always there. Sometimes they blaze, sometimes they burn, sometimes they simmer like a fire beneath her skin. Her world is full of fire. The forbidden sort of fire that one should never have to experience. And yet she does, barely living.  
  
Her hands push the door, pulling the bar and listening to the scrape of wood against stone. Wind rushes at her face, stinging her eyes and drawing salty tears from their depths. She does not have time to let them fall down her cheeks as she finds herself at the thick stone railing of the open tower. She merely lets the fat drops of rain fall upoun her and soak her skin, her mind denying the constant urgings to go back inside.  
  
Was this what it was like to be insane? she asks herself.  
  
Somewhere is a voice, telling her no. How can one be insane and still ask such a question?  
  
She does not know, she tells the voice and rests her chin in her hand. The sky is a dull grey and the grounds below are a blur of brown and green, the forest beyond spreading for miles and miles to the end of the horizon. The sun is absent and the sky grows dark as she stands, staring into an oblivion that does not exist. She remembers the lightning and the darkness of the graveyard, all haunting in their own, only to become terrifying with the presence of the one man she has tried so hard to conquer since the day she first heard his name. The complicated spells spill from her mouth, with Harry and Ron somewhere in the crowd, lying on the ground.  
  
She is alone there with him. Bodies in the dirt are sprawled around her and the pain is the only thing keeping her from drifting away. When he drops, with that one last word falling into the air, she knows its over for her. The blackness overtakes everything and nothing is real. It is gone.  
  
But she's still on the tower, feeling lonely and forgotten. Thunder booms from deep in the South along with the flash of lightning slicing through the dull grey of the clouds. And _his_ eyes are back there in her minds eye still, staring at her once again. A rare sigh escapes her lips and she can barely see his smirk through the fog, his blonde hair falling gracefully over his face. She wonders what it would be like to run her fingers through that hair, always looking so soft and silky unlike the mops of hair she always sees on top of other boys heads.  
  
What brought on such an infatuation? she also wonders curiously as her eyelids droop. The rain still pounds down from the sky as she ponders this. Is it the way he has seemed so mysterious after the death of Voldemort? Always so quiet and withdrawn, he acts as if nothing but himself exists. Why did she notice him all those months ago after so many long years of loathing?  
  
She turns around and slowly leaves the tower behind, knowing that there will never be a cure for her illness. The halls are still abandoned, but the hours have passed and everyone sleeps, so peaceful in their beds. Never has she been peaceful in her bed at night. Tossing and turning are all that laying still gets her, and so she does not even attempt rest. She knows about the dark circles beneath her eyes and the slimness of her body from days of not eating, and still she does not care. Why should she care? There is no point in caring for anything. It will be gone before you have a chance to say I love you.  
  
She denies all accusations of self mutilation.  
  
No one knows the hurt.  
  
So she walks once again, letting her feet carry her to wherever they wish her to go. Never has this method of killing the hours failed her, and so she uses it every night. After dinner is always torture, with no classes to latch onto, no school work to focus on and no event to attend. She wishes she can go to that place that he goes, wherever he goes. Does he walk around aimlessly? Does he sit alone in his room? How does he pass these endless hours of the night without going insane from the loneliness? She doesn't know. She does not seem to know anything.  
  
Finding herself in the dungeons is dangerous. It is dark and cold and her cloak, it is back there on the tower. Torches burst into flame every few feet as she walks along, wondering where she is. Where are her deceitful feet carrying her this time? Twist after twist, curve after curve she turns, not knowing where she is or where she is going. What is this place?  
  
A light shines ahead.  
  
What is that strange green glow, flickering so eerily in the distance?  
  
The solid solute of a person can be seen through the haze, but who is in the dungeons so late at night?  
  
She freezes at the shimmer of golden hair and the soft, masculine murmur. It is him. She cannot believe it as she watches him, his wand drawn and a circle of green so bright surrounding him. Perspiration beads on his forehead, he looks exhausted and strained, but still he keeps muttering, the words blurred to her ears. What magic is he working here, all alone at the high hours of the night? What curse is he laying upoun the world?  
  
He can't see her there in the shadows and as the light is fading she is still watching, studying his form as his shoulders droop and his breath escapes him in a whoosh of air from his lungs. Only the soft glow of the torches remains and her is but a shadowy figure in the darkness, shroud in mystery as always.  
  
He seems to compose himself, his spine stiffening and a taming hand pulling through his unusually matted blonde hair. What could cause such a callous person to become so worn? she wonders idly, admiring the broad expanse of his shoulders with wide and innocent brown eyes. Everything about him is so quiet, explaining her attachment. She has been ever so quiet since that night. There is nothing to say. Everything she said before that night had been pointless, ridiculous, niave, childish. There is nothing worth saying in this world unless it is something truly important. Love, hate, sorrow, feelings so strong they cannot be contained. Those are things to express.  
  
Everyone so effortlessly categorizes people. She is shy in their eyes. Is she shy in reality? No, she is reasonable. Why speak of something so stupid when one can say nothing at all and have their words hold so much more meaning?  
  
At her absent thoughts he turns. Her breath catches as she sees his eyes, so quick and sharp, those pools of silver. She could drown within their depths if he would just look her way. And now he does and she lays flat against the wall. Maybe he won't see her there, hiding from him. Her chin-length hair, attacked by scissors in her mothers hand, falls in her eyes as she lowers her head, hoping beyond hope that his eyes will move past her in their scan.  
  
They stop in the shadows.  
  
His eyes remind her of arrows as they become suspicious slits.  
  
His mouth his a determined slash across his face.  
  
He looks so hard.  
  
He walks towards her and she shifts ever so slightly, trying to keep the whimper that could so easily escape held deep in her throat. His face is so close when he stops, his breath hot against her face and his gaze accusing. His hands grip her arms and a small strangled noise flows into the air between her lips.  
  
" Granger?" she hears him question, his voice a hoarse whisper that leaves her trembling.  
  
His voice is beautiful.  
  
She nods.  
  
" What are you doing here?" comes the question, a deep growl of frustration.  
  
She can see the look of wariness across his face, the knowledge to much for his years held in his posture.  
  
She stumbles over words that are so rarely used, " W-walking." she manages.  
  
Barely.  
  
" Why?" he asks urgently, as if the answer matters to him.  
  
Her eyes drift closed, " I c-can't sleep." she responds, hoping her words mean something.  
  
Words were so precious.  
  
" You have nightmares."  
  
It was not a question.  
  
She nods again, seeming to limit herself to the action.  
  
" I have nightmares." he confides reluctantly. She wonders why he tells her this.  
  
" What do you have nightmares about?" she whispers in her soft voice, the words becoming smooth and soothing as her throat adjusts.  
  
He doesn't answer her, but she does not blame him.  
  
" I have nightmares about you." she says so quietly that he can barely hear her.  
  
" Nightmares?"he asks.  
  
" Nightmares." she confirms, looking him dead in the eye as she has longed to do for so very long.  
  
The silence is one of thought. She longs to hear his voice again, but does not say anything for fear of scaring him away. He seems like a deer, with her inching closer, but when he notices her, he runs away. The color that was in her cheeks is gone pale and her body trembles, still pinned to the cold stone wall by the wrists. Has he forgotten she's there?  
  
His lips part and the words slowly spill into the air, " My dreams are of you." is his confession.  
  
His hair still falls before his eyes, looking so soft even when it is tangled from his frustrated hands.  
  
" Dreams?" she questions, her breath coming short and her heart pounding.  
  
" Dreams."  
  
And is mouth is on hers, slowly moving her away from the world she knows and hates.  
  
His mouth is her world, his mouth is her life.  
  
He is her nightmare.  
  
He is her dream.


End file.
